21. Evidence and Doubt
twenty-one
Evidence and Doubt
Darcy had imagined, when first he sought Mr. Bennet’s permission to court Elizabeth, that once the matter was arranged between their families the greatest obstacles would have been overcome. Instead, the weeks that followed proved among the happiest—and the most perplexing—of his life.
Elizabeth accepted his company with unaffected pleasure.
They walked most every afternoon when the weather permitted.
They laughed together more easily than ever before.
She challenged him without hesitation, teased him whenever his dignity deserved it, and possessed an astonishing talent for coaxing amusement from the most ordinary circumstances.
Darcy, who had once imagined himself equal to governing his own affections, found they had long since escaped his management.
If she smiled across a room, he smiled in answer before he had determined to do so.
If she entered unexpectedly, conversation elsewhere lost all interest.
He had never believed love could insinuate itself so thoroughly into the common occupations of every day.
Yet another presence lay across those pleasant weeks like an unwelcome shadow.
An odd understanding had arisen without anyone proposing it.
Should Wickham happen to be at Longbourn when Darcy arrived, Elizabeth merely met his eye across the room.
“Would you care for some air, Mr. Darcy?”
He always accepted.
No explanation followed.
No one attempted one.
The household carried on behind them while they wandered the shrubbery or crossed the meadow beyond the house. Their conversations changed to books, Derbyshire, Jane’s growing attachment to Bingley, Georgiana’s music, or Mrs. Gardiner’s amusing observations of London society.
Never Mr. Wickham.
Once, Elizabeth ventured near the forbidden subject.
“I had a conversation yesterday with—”
Darcy interrupted more quickly than civility recommended.
“Miss Bennet, have I ever described the little valley below Pemberley after the autumn rains?”
She stopped speaking.
For several paces she merely watched him.
“You have become very accomplished at changing the subject.”
“I have had practice.”
“So I perceive.”
Nothing more was said.
Another time, while they rested beneath an oak overlooking the fields, Elizabeth traced idle patterns across the head of her walking stick.
“I cannot help believing—”
“Have I told you,” Darcy asked with determined brightness, “that Georgiana has finally consented to attempt Italian?”
Elizabeth regarded him with unmistakable exasperation.
“You are impossible.”
“I have been accused of as much before.”
She laughed despite herself, and the moment passed.
Darcy accepted the small victory with shamefully mixed feelings.
Each avoided wound preserved the peace between them.
Each avoided wound also remained unhealed.
Letters from Georgiana arrived faithfully every week.
She wrote of her studies under Mrs. Annesley’s supervision, of improvements to the conservatory at Pemberley, of a spaniel that had somehow persuaded every servant to indulge its whims, and of Mrs. Reynolds’ conviction that the south orchard would produce an extraordinary crop.
Every letter mentioned Elizabeth.
When may I hope to meet Miss Bennet?
Do assure Miss Bennet that I continue my practice and shall endeavor not to disgrace myself at the pianoforte when she visits.
I believe she will like the west gallery best.
Georgiana even ventured little jokes now and again.
Darcy treasured every line.
One subject remained untouched.
Ramsgate.
At first he searched each page for some passing reference.
Soon he ceased.
His sister had promised that, when she was prepared, she would tell him everything.
She had also asked him to trust that she was no longer the frightened girl he imagined.
He folded her letters carefully after each reading.
Whatever had happened during that unhappy summer, pressing her would reopen a wound she plainly wished to master in her own time.
If Elizabeth could ask patience of him, surely Georgiana deserved no less.
His rides through Meryton gradually became less hurried than formerly.
He had not consciously altered his route the first time.
By the third or fourth occasion, honesty required admitting he had.
He was watching Wickham.
Not openly.
He would sooner have confessed to reading sentimental poetry aloud in the assembly rooms.
Still, whenever business carried him through the village, his attention drifted against his will.
One brisk morning he observed Wickham emerging from Mr. Philips’ office carrying a leather folio beneath one arm.
Before he had gone twenty yards, an elderly widow intercepted him.
She produced several folded papers from an overfilled basket and spoke with visible agitation.
Wickham stopped. He accepted the documents, read through them one by one, then pointed to different passages while explaining something patiently enough that the woman began nodding instead of wringing her hands.
When she reached for her purse, Wickham stepped back.
Whatever payment she offered, he declined it with an easy shake of his head.
The widow touched his sleeve gratefully before continuing on her way.
Darcy shifted in the saddle.
Mr. Philips emerged from his office just then.
“You forgot these,” the solicitor called.
A bundle of tied papers changed hands.
They traded several cheerful remarks.
Mr. Philips laughed outright at something Wickham said.
The younger man answered with that familiar smile Darcy remembered from boyhood—the smile which had persuaded masters, servants, and neighbors alike that George Wickham possessed every virtue under heaven.
Darcy urged his horse onward.
Charm had always been Wickham’s greatest talent.
He reminded himself of it more than once before reaching Netherfield.
Another afternoon he passed the mercer’s shop.
Wickham emerged carrying parcels.
The proprietor followed him to the door.
“My regards to Miss Lydia, sir!”
“I shall deliver them.”
“And tell your employer those deeds will be finished tomorrow.”
“They will be on his desk before luncheon.”
The shopkeeper wished him good day with evident satisfaction.
No hint of uneasiness.
No creditor pursuing him into the street.
No angry gentleman demanding satisfaction.
Merely another respectable exchange.
Darcy frowned throughout the remainder of the ride.
His inquiries had produced equally little.
The discreet investigations he had commissioned weeks before had uncovered no gaming debts.
No neglected accounts.
No whispers involving young ladies.
No evidence of extravagance.
Instead, his servant reported that Mr. Wickham labored diligently in Mr. Philips’ office, attended church regularly, paid his bills promptly, and enjoyed a generally favorable reputation.
Such reports proved nothing.
A practiced deceiver could maintain appearances for months.
Years, perhaps.
Darcy knew that better than most.
Even so...
The thought lingered longer than he wished.
That evening Bingley found him standing before the library window.
“You are thinking.”
“I generally make some attempt.”
Bingley grinned.
“I mean seriously thinking.”
Darcy offered no reply.
His friend wandered farther into the room.
“You have been happier lately.”
“I have.”
“And troubled.”
Darcy’s silence answered for him.
Bingley rested one shoulder against the mantel.
“You still cannot reconcile Wickham with the fellow everyone here describes.”
“No.”
“You trust Elizabeth.”
“Entirely.”
“But not her judgment.”
Darcy closed the book he had been pretending to examine.
“I trust her judgment in nearly everything.”
“Nearly?”
“This concerns my family.”
Bingley accepted that.
After a moment he asked, “Have you spoken with Wickham since that day at Longbourn?”
“No.”
“You intended to.”
“I know.”
The admission tasted unpleasant.
“I have delayed.”
“Why?”
Darcy considered the question longer than perhaps it deserved.
“I told myself there was no purpose in it.”
“And now?”
“I begin to suspect the purpose was one I wished to avoid.”
Bingley studied him thoughtfully.
“You fear he might persuade you?”
“No.”
Darcy answered too quickly.
Bingley’s brows lifted.
Darcy exhaled.
“I fear that I might discover either that Elizabeth is wrong... or that I am.”
The words hung between them.
Bingley spoke with unusual seriousness.
“If either proves true, would it not be better to know?”
Darcy gave a humorless smile.
“I imagine so.”
After Bingley departed, Darcy remained by the window until darkness obscured the park.
Elizabeth’s face came to his thoughts with disconcerting clarity.
Her expression whenever Wickham’s name arose.
Not argumentative.
Not obstinate.
Simply disappointed.
She had never demanded he like the man—just that he hear him.
A modest request.
One he had somehow transformed into an impossibility.
He rested both hands upon the cool glass.
Beyond the window the moon silvered the lawns surrounding Netherfield.
How different life had become in scarcely three months.
Three months ago Elizabeth Bennet had been an engaging young woman whose acquaintance he wished to cultivate.
Now the thought of returning to Derbyshire without her hollowed him.
He loved her.
The acknowledgment no longer startled him.
It simply existed, as constant as sunrise.
No uncertainty remained upon that point.
Whatever difficulties lay between them, whatever confusion surrounded George Wickham, none of it altered the one truth Darcy possessed.
He wished Elizabeth to become his wife.
Soon.
Very soon.
Darcy scarcely remembered deciding to call at Longbourn the following afternoon.
One moment he sat in Netherfield’s library attempting to read the same page for the fourth time; the next, he found himself mounted and taking the familiar road toward Meryton.
His horse required little guidance.
The animal had become nearly as accustomed to the journey as its master.
As Longbourn came into view, Darcy experienced an uncommon sensation.
Anticipation mingled with apprehension.
He wished to see Elizabeth above every other person.
He also intended, before another day had passed, to ask her to become his wife.